


all these broken parts

by deliciously_devient



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Attempted Suicide (past), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Soulmate AU, Suicidal Thoughts, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-06-03 20:40:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19471783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deliciously_devient/pseuds/deliciously_devient
Summary: Struggling, isolated and just existing, Hanzo doesn’t believe he is worthy of love, let alone the love of someone like Jesse.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I work on when I have the Big Sads.

Hanzo wakes, as always, to the dark interior of his room. He isn’t sure what time it is, as his curtains curtail any light getting through, and squints muggily at his phone to determine it is three am. He’d only fallen asleep at midnight, and he tosses the device aside angrily as he turns over, as if turning his back to it will change the time. 

The low, nameless anxiety that haunts his days is curling up in his chest, and he closes his eyes and lets out a long sigh. He knows he won’t be able to go back to sleep, that this nameless ache in his chest will only grow worse until all he can do is breathe in sharp gasps and whimper. Insomnia seems to make the ache worse, but he can’t bring himself to do anything about it. He hasn’t even seen a doctor in nearly five years, let alone bought any over the counter sleep aids. 

He doesn’t trust himself with medication. 

Usually when it’s this bad, with loneliness whispering in his ear and the low voice of his brother and father murmuring how much of a pathetic waste of space he is, he will read. Losing himself in a fictional story is the most effective way to quiet his troubles, but he cannot seem to make himself move. The storm has already broken on his shores, it would seem, and now he must weather it. 

Hours pass, he thinks, shivering under his many blankets and clutching them close, trying to draw whatever comfort he can from their softness. He tries to remember the last time he was touched gently, and the memory of his mother’s perfume tries valiantly to overcome the demons swirling in his mind. 

_ She died because of you, you know _ , a voice much like Genji’s murmurs.  _ She killed herself because you were such a pathetic burden. It’s your fault Genji grew up without a mother.  _

The thought strikes him where he is weakest, such a harsh and unrelenting blow he gasps aloud, curling in on his core and shuddering with sobs. He doesn’t often cry -these episodes don’t come as often, or at least don’t affect him much anymore but this thought nearly breaks him. 

He has few memories of his mother and they are all pleasant, warm; she was kind and gentle where his father was cruel and hard. He knows it’s unlikely but he likes to think that he was her favorite, though Genji was barely able to walk before she passed. 

He wants to protest; he wants to tell the voice that it is wrong, that his mothers death rested on his fathers cruelty, but the thought is invasive. After all, who could live with themselves after having given birth to such a monster as Hanzo? Who could possibly love a child who’s soulmate took one look at them and said what was written on Hanzo’s skin? How could the voice be wrong?

“I’m sorry,” Hanzo gasps between sobs, though he does not know who he is entreating. His mother, if she could see him, would not forgive him. His father would beat him until he ceased this worthless crying. His brother would likely mock him, and likely agree with the voice. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

He repeats it like a mantra as he rocks himself, hands clasped around his biceps harsh enough for his fingernails to draw blood. Eventually, as always, the episode ends and he is left staring at the wall, dead-eyed and hollow. 

His arms hurt where he gripped them too tight but he pays them no mind. He gathers up his blankets to his chest and buries his face in them. He pretends, for a moment, that there is someone to brush his hair back and say that they love him. He pretends he  _ deserves _ any kind of affection, and pretends he can receive it. 

After a while his stomach drives him to the kitchen, and he cooks some rice. He serves it to himself in a small bowl with a raw egg on top and barely tastes it when he forces it down his throat. He hates rice, and he hates eggs, but he doesn’t buy anything else. 

He doesn’t deserve anything else. 

He goes through his katas and does pushups and pull ups and squats until his body feels as numb as his heart does. When he’s done he showers and then sits at his desk and reads. 

He itches for human contact; it’s been building for a few weeks now, and while he usually doesn’t leave his apartment he feels like he might have to. He dresses in his nicest clothes and a new jacket he ordered on a rare whim. Just looking at the soft leather design makes guilt roil in his stomach -it’s so finely made he can’t possibly deserve it- but not wearing it would be worse than having bought it. 

Memories of his last conversation with his brother flood his mind on the quiet walk to his favorite bar. He remembers the look of disgust on Genji’s face when Hanzo asked him to stay in Japan and help run their fathers company. He remembers his own misplaced anger when Genji refused, remembers how he called Genji selfish. 

Remembers the last thing Genji said before leaving their home and never returning. 

_ You really  _ **_are_ ** _ a worthless piece of shit, aren’t you? _

Thinking of this would normally send him into a spiral but tonight he is already hollowed out by despair. He simply accepts the words as the truth they are, and decides he’d like to get drunk. 

He sits at his normal corner of the bar, and hands over his card without making eye contact with the bartender. She knows him, he’s been coming here every two to three weeks for five years, and she always has a smile ready for him. She doesn’t try to talk to him anymore, just gives him a smile and his favorite sake every time and makes sure his glass is full until he leaves. He appreciates her deeply and sometimes wishes he could engage her in conversation. 

But he doesn’t allow himself to speak more than absolutely necessary anymore. 

He contemplates his drink as he takes in the murmur of voices and tinkle of glasses around him. This is as close to human contact he gets anymore, and he closes his eyes to savor it further as he sips the sake. He wonders if it would be better if he didn’t have a soulmate, if he had been born with unblemished flesh. Would his father have been more or less cruel? Would his mother still be alive? Would he have been better? 

No, he decides after a moment. Everything would likely be the same except his father might have drowned him as a baby. He was very traditional and likely would have seen child without a soulmate mark as a terrible omen for the business. And Sojiro Shimada placed the well being of his business over everything else. 

Perhaps it  _ would  _ have been better for him to be born without a mark after all. 

The sake settles warm in his stomach, and as he drinks through his second and third glasses, it eases the horrible, cold ache in his chest. He knows if he allowed himself he would drink heavily every night, and that’s why he doesn’t keep alcohol in his apartment. It’s better this way, that he must venture out into the world to drink and to play voyeur on other people’s lives. He doesn’t look around but he listens in on conversations, pretends he is being addressed. Pretends he has people that like him and want him around, when he knows nothing could be further from the truth. 

He has just received his fourth glass when a large, strong hand clamps down on his shoulder and spins him around. He yelps, not understanding at first the words he hears, before a fist connects heavily with his jaw. 

_ “You worthless piece of shit!”  _

The man who snarled it -his voice deep and heavy with some kind of drawl- is pulling his fist back again to land another blow, and Hanzo is still reeling from  _ hearing  _ the words inked onto his skin he can’t make his hands move to block it. He gasps when he feels his nose crunch painfully, the pain knocking him out of the stupor, hands coming up to protect his face. 

Other patrons have jumped in, including the bouncer, and Hanzo slides to the ground, hands over his bloody nose, his heart thumping in his chest. 

He hears the man who punched him -his  _ soulmate-  _ screaming about roofies and jackets, but he can’t process the words. Nothing really makes sense to him, and tears start forming at his eyes. He shouldn’t have come out tonight. After all the great lengths he’d gone through to keep himself sequestered, to avoid speaking or interacting with anyone in any capacity, here he was. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. He wasn’t supposed to meet his soulmate. They weren’t supposed to have the burden of him on their mind. 

He hadn’t realized how devastating the words would be to hear until he heard them. 

“Hey, hey, are you alright?” the bartender asks, suddenly crouching in front of him. Her eyes are concerned and guilt twists in his gut at having her worry over him. He isn’t anywhere close to alright but he nods anyway, accepting the rag she hands him and gently pressing it to his bloody face to stem the bleeding. 

Time dilates oddly for him, and he swims from sitting on the floor to being led away in cuffs by the police. The story of what happened filters in to him from what seems like far away; someone else wearing his same jacket had attempted to roofie a friend of his soulmate, but had slipped away when confronted. The man had searched different bars throughout the neighborhood to find the would-be rapist and ended up spotting Hanzo in the same jacket. 

He’s released in the early hours of morning, his nose sensitive and bandaged, his mind in a grey fog. He hasn’t fully processed the nights events and he isn’t sure he wants to. Everything was much simpler before he went out that night. 

He strips off his pants when he gets home, staring disbelievingly at his left leg where the words of his soulmate had been emblazoned on his skin since his birth. Sure enough, no longer were the words simply outlines; they had been filled with sharp, vibrant red and the skin was slightly tender to the touch. 

As he sits and stares at the ink, he realizes he hadn’t said anything back. He doesn’t know whether or not he wanted to. 

It doesn’t really matter now. 

***

“You are so fucking dumb, Jesse McCree,” Genji grouses as he gets into his car. Jesse has the grace to look sheepish as he ducks down in the passenger seat of Genji’s car. “You should have just called the police when you saw him! They would have sorted everything out, but  _ no,  _ you had to assault a random stranger!”

“Look it ain’t my best moment alright?” Jesse grumbles, but he doesn’t argue further. He’s got a black eye from where the bouncer sucker punched him, and the wide-eyed shock of the man he’d punched keeps replaying in his mind. He’d seen the jacket and gone into a near blind rage, but thinking back on it, on the surprise and fear on the man’s face, he feels like an utter ass. 

“You’re lucky he didn’t want to press charges!” Genji scolds and Jesse sighs, nodding. 

“Yeah. You’re right. I fucked up. I’m just glad he was cool about it when we got everything sorted,” Jesse concedes. Genji glares at him out of the corner of his eye but is quiet until they reach their shared house. The sun is just rising over the horizon, turning the sky a gentle pink, and Jesse wonders about the man. He wonders if there’s someone to take care of him when he gets home, if he’s getting the care he needs. 

He hopes so. 

***

Nearly a month passes since the incident, and Hanzo doesn’t leave his apartment once. He has some more rice and eggs delivered, but he doesn’t eat much. He spends most of his time in bed, staring at the wall. He feels grossly hollow inside, as if someone had taken a spoon and gutted him like a pumpkin. 

He thinks about the anger on his soulmates face. He thinks about the feeling of his knuckles crunching against Hanzo’s nose. He thinks about how pathetic it is that that’s the most he’s been touched by another person in years. He lies on his back and traces the scar on his stomach, and thinks he might be able to finish the job this time. 

He wonders what words are on his soulmates skin. If there are any words. He doesn’t know the man’s name, his age, anything about him at all. He thinks about what he might say, if he could. Perhaps he’d compliment his nobility, his loyalty to his friends. Give him kind words, words that would have been comfort in his darkest times. Hopeful ones that he would have cherished as a young adult. 

He wonders if the man would soften when he learned Hanzo was his soulmate. If he would take Hanzo by the hand, wrap his arms around him and hold him close. If he would whisper sweet nothings in Hanzo’s ear, promise him forever and keep that promise. 

He shoves those thoughts down viciously, whenever they come, because they are disgustingly untrue and a gross fantasy about someone he will likely never see again. He’s already resolved that he will not go back to the bar; it was already an outlet he did not deserve, and he had gone and done the unthinkable already. He’s only lucky that he had been too dazed to say anything back, that he hadn’t burdened his soulmate with himself. 

He didn’t deserve nice things, or tender words or touches. He didn’t deserve a soulmate and he certainly didn’t deserve a soulmate so kind and loyal and  _ good  _ as the one he had. No, it would be better for him to stay locked up in his apartment, slowly wasting away until he no longer took up the space he was undeserving of. 

If he weren’t a coward, he would simply kill himself outright, he thought viciously. If he weren’t a coward, he wouldn’t have failed the first time he had tried. 

_ The hospital room is cold. The machines beep incessantly, and the nurses refuse to let the painkillers leave his system. He can barely feel the pain of his stomach, and he doesn’t like that. He deserves the pain; for driving Genji away, for being weak, for letting the ghost of his father down. He’s been nothing but a failure, and the words his soulmate will speak to him one day burn his inner thigh.  _

_ He’s had a few visitors, all of them distant cousins and a few board members, and the lie that he’d suffered from appendicitis burned his tongue each time he told it. It wasn’t entirely a lie, of course, as his appendix had been too damaged to remain and thus they removed it while stitching him back together.  _

_ Genji hadn’t come.  _

_ It was for the best, he supposed. He didn’t deserve his brothers concern; had done nothing to earn it, not once in his whole life, and now he was alone in the world.  _

_ Just as he deserved.  _

_ When he was released (early, despite the doctors concerns, but enough yen shut anyone’s mouth) he drew up the papers that would hand over control of the company to his cousin Hiro. He was a smart man with a good head on his shoulders; he will lead the company well. He signed them and delivered them to his cousin in person.  _

_ He left Hanamura that day.  _

He should exercise. He should get up and shower, or read or eat. He needs to do something except lie in bed, curled around his pillows, imagining the hand he’s running through his hair is someone else’s. 

There’s a million other things he should be doing but he can’t bring himself to move. He’s thinking about his soulmate, obsessing, really, recalling what he can about his face. It was twisted in rage when Hanzo saw him, but he had laugh lines around his eyes. Whiskey colored eyes, so beautiful and so full of hate it made Hanzo sick to his stomach to think about. He’d sometimes let himself think, before, that his words were a mistake somehow. Something playful instead of something hateful, but he’d been proven wrong. 

As of late, he’d been letting himself curl on his side, body pillow at his back and his own arms wrapped around his middle, and pretend his soulmate was holding him. In Hanzo’s fantasy, his soulmate was gentle, reverent almost, as he held Hanzo close and murmured sweet words in his ear. He desperately wanted to be treated softly, even as he scorned himself for wanting it. 

He would never dare to think he could have those things, of course. Their meeting had only proved what Hanzo knew to be true his whole life; that he was worthless and undeserving of love or affection. His father had repeated the mantra often enough, told him he was unworthy of his mate and his only use would be to run the company. 

Which he’d also failed at. 

The moment the weight of the responsibility of Shimada Enterprises fell on his shoulders, he collapsed like a poorly made paper mache man. He sniffs softly and curls tighter around himself, pulling his weighted blanket up and over his shoulders. He’s been in this thought spiral for hours now, and he desperately wants to think of anything else. He wants to read, maybe, or even play a game. He’s too heavy to move, held down heavily by the weight of his despair. 

He is drowning, and no one is there to save him. 


	2. Chapter 2

Eventually, Hanzo is hollow enough to make it out of his bed. He knows the hollowness is only a temporary fix, that the loneliness will crush him again when he is least expecting it, but he’s numb enough now to at least bathe himself. 

The shower feels good on his grimy skin, and he turns the knob as far as it will go; it burns him, but the warmth sinks deeper, and he spends a long time under the spray chasing the chill away from his bones. 

His hair is getting too long, he thinks as he steps out of the shower, roughly wringing the wet strands out with a towel. He pulls on a pair of underwear, plops himself on his bed with his brush and begins detangling the lank mess. His strokes are rough, tugging mercilessly at his own scalp as he brushes. The pain is bright against the numb feeling in his chest, and if he tugs a little harder than necessary, well. There’s no one else around to care. 

When the tangles are gone, he threads his fingers through his hair for long moments with his eyes closed. It’s soothing, a soft motion he can pretend is someone else. His brother, maybe, come to braid his hair and gossip about his many conquests and gently prod Hanzo into telling him who he thought was attractive. Nostalgia hits him, sharp and bittersweet as he thinks about the relationship he and Genji used to have. 

When they were young, Genji looked up to him, sought him out as a confidant and friend. He invited Hanzo to parties, told his older brother his secrets and Hanzo kept them. They were close, almost inseparable. 

Until they weren’t. 

Thinking about it makes Hanzo sigh deeply, closing his eyes and hanging his head. He’s too drained to spiral deeper, worn out and squeezed dry like a sponge left in the sun too long. He stops playing with his hair, and shoves himself towards his closet to dress in something other than sweats. 

It isn’t often that he is numb like this; when he is, he likes to take advantage of the absence of his emotions to do things he wouldn’t normally do, and he’s decided he would like a bowl of ramen. There’s a place just a few blocks away that has the closest recipe to home, one he’d discovered a few years back, and whenever he can he goes there. The taste of the noodles always bring back painful memories of his brother and their favorite ramen shop, and so he generally avoids it. 

Today, though, he thinks it will be manageable. It might hurt worse when the numbness leaves him, but he feels like maybe he deserves something nice. It’s been so long since he’s been out to eat; surely he can have something enjoyable every once in a while?

He decides to walk, since it isn’t far at all. The smell of wet concrete greets him, though the sun is shining now. The walk is soothing, and he takes the opportunity to people watch as surreptitiously as he can. Before he knows it he’s arrived at the ramen shop and takes a seat at the bar. 

He orders the same thing he always does when he gets there, sips his water and revels in the soft sound of conversation around him. The restaurant isn’t crowded but there’s enough people to soothe his need to socialize. His heart gives a brief pang as he realizes he won’t ever be able to return to the bar he frequented, but he shoves the thought away. He is in public, and cannot spiral where other people can see. It would make them unnecessarily concerned about him, and that’s the last thing he wants. 

His waitress places the large bowl of ramen in front of him and he thanks her quietly, leaning over slightly to inhale the scent. It seeps into his lungs, beef and spice, spreading warmth through him. Food never fails to make him feel good, and he barely restrains a moan as he takes his first bite of noodles. It’s part of the reason he restricts his diet so much normally, why guilt almost drowns him every time he eats anything he enjoys. He’s sure the anxiety of consuming such a delicious meal will make him vomit later, but he won’t think about that now. 

He’s barely taken three bites when he hears it; a sharp gasp followed by shocked-filled words in his native tongue. 

_ “Oh my god, Hanzo? Is that you?”  _

He freezes, chopsticks halfway to his mouth, heart instantly pounding a rapid tattoo in his chest because  _ he knows that voice.  _ His hands shake and his breath becomes shallow as he turns his head to see his brother standing just behind him. Fear, sharp and acrid, curls in his chest and restricts his breathing further. He sees Genji’s mouth moving but he can’t hear anything over the ringing in his ears. 

Spots appear in the corners of his vision, and he’s gasping, panting harshly but he can’t breathe. Genji’s hands are on his shoulders, his mouth moving but Hanzo doesn’t understand what he’s saying. It doesn’t matter, really; this is it, this is finally how he dies. Genji has decided that him leaving in disgrace was not enough, and has come to kill him. The thought is strangely comforting as he feels his back hit the ground, body giving up on trying to support him as his panic takes over. The last thought he has before he passes out is that at least he got to see Genji one last time before he died. 

***

Genji is beside himself; he’d gone to a little Japanese place for a lunch date, and ended up finding his missing brother. Not only that, his missing brother had  _ passed out _ at the very sight of him -which, ow, he knew he’d been an ass but rude- and when he’d called an ambulance he’d found out he was severely underweight and malnourished. 

So malnourished, in fact, the hospital wanted to keep him on fluids for a few days before releasing him. He was still out cold, looking pale and small in the large hospital. His skin was greyish and ashen, cheeks gaunt and hair lank. It was clean, but brittle and unhealthy looking, much like the rest of Hanzo himself. All of his ribs were visible, the gown the hospital put him in engulfing him completely. 

He looked almost dead. 

The thought twisted uncomfortably in his stomach; in the back of his mind he’d always held the thought that Hanzo had died somewhere, alone and lost, and that Genji would never know. Would never get the chance to apologize for the last thing he said, for not visiting him when he’d been in the hospital for appendicitis, for having so much grief and anger between them. 

He comforts himself now by taking Hanzo’s hand -thin, too thin- and holding it in both of his. Hanzo’s hands are as large as he remembers, but the fingers thinner, more delicate. His skin feels papery, unhealthy, and Genji clenches his jaw. It’s apparent that whatever Hanzo has been doing since he left hasn’t included taking care of himself, and he vows quietly he will change that. 

He’d long given up any hope of finding his brother -he’d covered his tracks so thoroughly, in ten years he’d not been able to track him down- and he will not waste this chance he’s been given. What are the odds that they would be in the same city, the same restaurant, after all these years? He’s been given a gift, and he will not waste it. 

He can’t stop thinking of Hanzo’s expression when he’d looked at Genji; the horror, the raw  _ fear  _ in his eyes. It was as if he’d seen his worst nightmare in the flesh, and while Genji knew things hadn’t exactly ended well between them, he didn’t think he warranted that kind of fear. 

He jumps when he hears a soft gasp, Hanzo’s hand pulling away from his, and sees his brothers eyes are open. He clenches Hanzo’s hand tighter, and swallows when his hold triumphs. He remembers his brother being so much stronger, body cared for with endless hours in the gym. 

“Hanzo!” he says, conjuring up a smile from somewhere. It pains him to see his brother like this, but he’s also happy that they’ve finally been reunited. That he can start to make amends. “Are you thirsty?”

His brother blinks slowly, brows coming up in obvious confusion. He shakes his head no, chewing his lower lip. 

“Ah. They have put you on fluids, and some liquid nutrition. The doctor said you were very malnourished, and they want to keep you here for at least two days,” Genji recites, his thumb rubbing methodically over Hanzo’s knuckles. 

His brother only nods, though the confused expression remains, and he doesn’t say anything. Genji isn’t sure how to start the conversation they need to have, so he’s silent as well. 

The silence drags on, and Genji shifts in his chair more and more. He isn’t used to being quiet, or silence, but it’s as if everything he’d ever learned has left him. He’s spent so many hours thinking of what he would say to Hanzo if they were to meet again, but every word has flown the coop. 

To his great surprise, it’s Hanzo that breaks the silence. 

“You don’t have to be here,” he says softly, voice raspy with disuse. His eyes are wide, and they hold such sorrow in them it makes Genji’s chest ache. “I know that you hate me, and you are right to. Please do not allow your sense of duty to cause you discomfort.”

Genji nearly gasps, so harsh and sharp is the pain that hits him. He feels anger flare at the assumption of his feelings, but it’s almost immediately replaced by agony as he realizes that Hanzo isn’t making a jab. His brother was always a terrible liar, and his face is open and honest, now. 

He believes what he is saying. 

“Hanzo,” Genji says, and his voice cracks slightly. He blinks back tears, squeezes his brothers hand harder, and takes a fortifying breath. “Hanzo. I don’t hate you,” he starts, pausing to take another shaky breath. “I don’t hate you. You’re my brother, and I  _ love  _ you, and I’ve been so afraid I would never be able to take back the horrible things I said to you, never get to ask forgiveness and have you in my life.”

There is nothing in Hanzo’s face except confusion, the lines of his brow deepening as he stares at Genji. His long, delicate fingers reach up and wipe away a tear that escaped him. “Genji,” he says, and his voice is gentle, full of emotion. “You have never spoken anything cruel to me. You have only ever told me the truth. You do not need my forgiveness, you have done nothing wrong.”

It is Genji’s turn for his face to twist in confusion and budding horror. He stares into Hanzo’s face, looking for a hint sarcasm, any kind of joke, anything except the raw, genuine honesty that is staring out at him. He realizes, with dawning horror, that Hanzo  _ believes  _ that. Their years apart have changed his brother fundamentally, and he covers his mouth with his hands as it hits him how broken the man he’s looking at. 

“But I  _ have, _ ” Genji insists. “The last thing I said to you was a horrible jab at your words, and when you were ill I didn’t even visit you. I was angry and hurt after Father died and I took it out on you and it wasn’t right of me.”

Hanzo is still looking at Genji with confusion, and he shakes his head slowly. “Genji,” he says slowly, as if he is speaking to a child. “I am not worth the heartache you are feeling. The things you told me were true; my words are what they are because they are  _ true _ .”

Genji’s face falls, and he takes Hanzo’s hands in his. He chews on his bottom lip, thinking desperately of any way he can convince Hanzo that he’s wrong, that  _ Genji  _ was wrong all those years ago, and finds his vocabulary lacking. 

“Hanzo,” he says softly after a few moments. “Hanzo, I love you. You are my brother, my family, and I love you, but you need therapy.”


End file.
